Language of the Heart
by TheMistressElegance
Summary: A one shot between Chris and an OC. Both widowed, both needing something from the other that they just can't seem to admit. *Warning* there is smut.


**A/N: Some of you were decidedly Aggie/Chris in my last fanfic (Live Again, which I promise will be updated soon) so I decided to write this little one shot that popped into my head and give Chris some much deserved love. That being said, if you'd like it expanded on - just let me know and I'll write more Amelia/Chris.**

She was hanging her clothes out to dry, stooping over the woven basket and then throwing the damp clothes over the line, pinning them in place. She tossed up a white sheet and then, when it settled into place and she pulled a clothespin out of her apron pocket, there he was.

That was always the way with him, to just appear, when she least expected it. She'd look up and there he'd be, on his dark, leggy horse - just sitting there on the knoll, a few miles away from her cabin. Of course, it could have been anyone, but it wasn't. She knew when it was him, she could feel it. She could tell by the way he sat in the saddle, by the hat he worse, by his silhouette against the sky.

Shielding her eyes against the sun sinking behind him she studied him for a moment, then lifted her hand in the acknowledging half wave she always greeted him with. Unless he was already in her doorway, or at her kitchen table, which had happened before.

Hurrying through the laundry she turned and went into the house, stoking the stove and putting the coffee pot onto boil. He loved a hot cup of coffee after a long ride. She had biscuits proofing in the warming oven over the stove, and a pullet in the oven. Although he claimed to enjoy eating meals in the saloon in Four Corners and washing them down with beer or whiskey, the truth was, she knew he appreciated the domesticity of his time with her. Maybe it was the comfort of childhood coming back to him, or memories of being a married man, or maybe it was just that he could slip away and be a different man here. Whatver the reason, she could always see the tenseness leave his shoulders when he walked in. How he closed his eyes and breathed in the smell of supper and percolating coffee with a little smile of satisfaction.

He didn't bother to knock, he never did. She could pretend it bothered her, but having him open the door and waltz in like it was his place - like she was his woman - brought a skip of joy to her heart.

His black hat was in his hand, he threw it on a peg by the door and ran a hand through his messy blonde hair - showering droplets on her floor. He'd scrubbed his face and neck at the water trough and submerged his head, clearing away the dust inside and out. He smiled at her, the cheeky, half smile that probably wasn't reserved only for her but felt like it. He reached out and wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her to him, dropping his lips down onto hers. Even after a quick wash in the cool water outside, the smell of horse and saddle leather clung to him. The masculine, lingering smell of the cigarillos he smoked and always that undertone that was so uniquely him.

When he broke the kiss she didn't open her eyes right away, instead she held the feeling that washed over her, leaning her cheek against his chest.

"Chris," she breathed.

"Amelia," he answered softly.

"It's good to see you," she said.

"It's always good to see you," he replied.

She pulled away and straightened her hair. Gesturing to a chair she indicated that he should sit, which he did. She poured him a cup of coffee in a blue enamelled cup and he looped his first two fingers through the handle, sipping slowly at the piping hot liquid while he watched her move with confidence and grace around her kitchen. Before long she'd put a pan of carved chicken, surrounded by small onions and potatoes, and a dish of fragrant biscuits on the table in front of him. She filled a plate to heaping and passed it to him, filling a plate with less for herself she picked up her knife and fork and tasted her handiwork.

For a while he didn't speak, just ate with obvious relish. She did the same. Eventually, he split open a biscuit and mopped up what was left on his plate with it. Finishing that he drained his coffee and leaned his chair back on two legs, satisfied.

"More coffee? " Amelia asked.

"No, that's alright."

Amelia got up and began clearing the plates from the table, setting them in the dry sink by the back door, just outside was the hand pump for the well where she would fill her water bucket.

Chris stood up and went to the door first. "I'll get it," he said, picking up the empty bucket.

She set a basin on the stove and he filled it, slowly it warmed, and Chris remained silent.

Although he was by nature a quiet man, Amelia could tell that something was bothering him. But, that wasn't unusual. He often turned up when something happened that upset him, or something that he couldn't make sense of. He was the leader of the Seven, there was a power dynamic that prevented him from speaking as freely with them as they did with each other. He had Buck, the man who'd been there with him through everything, his closest friend, but there were things he didn't want even to talk about to him. Things that he wouldn't understand, things that he wanted - maybe needed - a woman for.

He'd tried prostitutes. He wasn't proud of it, and it wasn't even the memory of Sarah that bothered him, which is what he'd expected. No, it was a sense of dishonouring himself. He was a "man's man", he'd been a soldier, survived a war; spent months in isolation and wandering the west where there was no one but Indian women and whores. It was never frowned upon to see a sporting woman, and although he'd done it frequently enough, as a young man and again when Sarah had died and he was trying to drown the pain inside of him, something about it had never sat quite right with him. After being in love with a woman and making love to her, paying a woman for favours had left him feeling emptier and more alone than ever.

She knew that he had a life away from here, away from her. And she suspected that she wasn't the only woman in his life, but it didn't matter. As long as he was here, he was hers. She found a certain comfort in him that she hadn't known for a long time.

In keeping with their routine, Amelia poured the warm water into a bowl and pitcher and brought down a bar of soap and a clean, sweet smelling floursack from a cupboard on the wall. Chris started to undo the buttons on his shirt but Amelia gently pushed his hands aside and undid them herself. He watched her fine, long fingers at work and cleared his throat gruffly when she reached up and pushed the shirt off his shoulders. A flush rose to Amelia's cheeks and she turned away to let him wash up on his own.

She moved into the only other room in the cabin, the bedroom. An ornate brass bed, a wedding gift she and her husband had brought with them all the way from Massachusetts, stood against the far wall. She'd changed the sheets just before she'd hung out the last of the laundry, and a patchwork quilt she'd sewn her first winter out west fell a foot over the edges of the straw tick mattress. The sun had gone down and there was only a faint twilight glow coming through the windowpane. Amelia pulled the eyelet lace curtain across it, leaving the room in a murky darkness. On the bureau was a hairbrush and a candle in a holder. Striking a match she held it to the wick until the candle flared to life. The mirror reflected it so that there was a warm and pleasant glow on the room. Amelia pulled the pins from her chestnut hair and let it fall down around her shoulders, running her fingers through it before picking up the soft bristled brush.

She could hear Chris in the kitchen, the water in the bowl sloshing while he washed, the door opening so he could throw the dirty water out, the clean water being poured into the bowl. Sometimes she watched him, her pulse quickening to observe what felt so incredibly intimate. He wasn't self-concious, not like she was. Although at first, their first times together, he had seemed unsure of himself. Or maybe it was that he was unsure of his own motives, unsure of allowing himself something like this.

She was so lost in reverie she didn't notice Chris come in. He'd blown out the lanterns in the main room, only the sound of the door closing jarred her back into the present. She watched him in the mirror, her eyes taking in all that she could see in the reflection. His underwear, half buttoned in the front, the hair that appeared at the waistband and crept up his stomach, spreading lightly over his chest. His strong shoulders, his neck, the stubble on his cheeks. And then her eyes met his, and the familiar look was there. The look that had drawn her to him so strongly, the intensity that had secured her in her desire for him. There was a fire in them, that she expected was matched by her own.

Chris held out his hand and Amelia placed hers within it. Her slender, feminine fingers were dwarfed by his, and though his clasp was firm, it was also gentle.

He pulled her to him and she didn't resist. She fell against him and gripped his arms in her hands. He grasped her hair at the base of her neck and covered his mouth with hers. His kisses were passionate, and grew hungrier the longer they lasted. Amelia allowed him to guide her to the bed and to be laid down across it when her calves bumped into the rails.

It had been several months since she'd seen him, and her desire for him was strong, and growing stronger the more he touched her. He trailed kisses down her neck and along her collarbone, nipping and sucking at her skin until she felt overwhelmed, her skin hot and tingling. She pulled him back to her lips and flicked her tongue against his, allowing him to bite at her own lips and to run his own tongue over her teeth and the tender skin behind them.

Amelia's hands reached down between them and felt for the buttons that held him prisoner. When she had freed him from the restraint, he kicked them off and pulled back to look at her.

"I've missed you," he said, huskily.

"I've missed you, too," Amelia said, raising her hand to stroke his cheek.

He closed his eyes and leaned into her touch, turning his face to kiss her palm.

"Sometimes..." he began, then trailed off.

Amelia waited for him to finish, to say what he was thinking, but instead he looked down at her again with that fiery passion that sent a lightening bolt right through her.

She had removed her apron and unbuttoned the uppermost buttons on her dress for comfort, but it was still on and so was her petticoat. Chris pulled her upright and removed both, reaching behind her he made short work of the lacing on her stays and cast them aside. Goosebumps broke out on her flesh when the coolness of the air enveloped her. Chris placed his hands over her breasts and felt the hardness of her nipples against his palms. This time, Amelia maneuvered herself so that she was on top of him, his hands still on her. Finally, they were pressed together with nothing between them, flesh on flesh.

Capturing his mouth in a kiss, her hair fell down around his face and curtained them in. Moving down, she kissed her way across his chest, she flicked her tongue over his nipples, which had grown hard as hers. Whenever she had him here, in her bed, with his body laid out before her, she was always struck by how beautiful a man could be. What drew her to Chris was the shroud of mystery around him, the imperfections. His body was scarred in several places, and he wouldn't always tell her by what, or how close they may have come to ending his life.

She had him memorized, in the long nights when he wasn't there, in the weeks or months that she didn't see him, she would lay awake and picture him in her mind. Now, while he was physically there, she found every scar and mark and lavished love upon them. Bullet wounds she could recognize, two small burns she knew, others she couldn't match up, but she adored them all the same. Using her fingers, her lips, her tongue, she drove him nearly over the edge with lust. His breathing grew more irregular, he threaded his fingers in her hair, he moaned and arched against her. Finally, it was more than he could stand. Encircling her with one arm he flipped them around so that he was on top of her.

Chris' calloused hands ran over her skin, sending sparks through her. It was her turn to be fraught with desire and need.

"Are you ready?" Chris whispered in her ear.

"Oh, yes," she affirmed. "Always."

Opening herself to him she wrapped her legs around his waist and crossed her ankles in the small of his back. Chris aligned himself with her and gently thrust his hips forward, entering her and letting out a long, rough breath. He dropped his head onto her shoulder and murmered insensibly in her ear. Each of them loved this moment, the first moment of being joined together.

Slowly, Chris began to move within her. She locked her ankles tighter and raised her hips up to meet each of his thrusts. He seemed to know exactly how to please her; how quickly or how slowly she wanted him to move, how hard or how softly she desired. Even her husband had not been so in tune to her, she had not been brought so fully alive, nor felt so adored and pleasured, before Chris.

Although he tried to keep some control over himself, and to prolong their coupling, he was so overtaken by the warmth of Amelia's body, her sweet moaning in his ear, the intoxicating smell of her that seemed to fill the room, and the simple fact that he had been too long without her, to hold himself back for too long. But he could tell by the way the pink blush on Amelia's skin rose up from her chest to her neck and spread out across her cheeks, from the way she thrust her hips up against his and pulled at his hair, that she was nearly there as well.

He raised himself up just enough to get his hand on her strong thigh, sensing more than seeing the creamy white skin and the birthmark that adorned it. She let her legs drop to either side of him, and when he pushed her leg back toward her, folded at the knee, she knew he had done it for her. He filled her so completely, every inch of him caressing and stroking her in a way that always felt brand new and so unexpectedly intimate.

"Yes?" he panted, his breath hot on her cheek.

She wanted to reply but her voice had left her. She could feel the familiar sensation creeping up her legs and into her belly, suddenly exploding within her, so powerfully that her head started to spin and pinpricks of light flashed behind her closed eyes. She cried out, and when he did the same she put her face into his shoulder and bit down on the skin and muscle there. In all of the world just then there was only she, and him, and the time that had frozen between them.

He rocked her in his arms, slowly thrusting in and out as the sensation ebbed in and out between them, he repeated her name below his breath, barely audible, like a mantra that springs to mind unbidden. And then the world drifted back in around them. She could hear the distant chirping of the frogs on the edge of the pond, the breeze flapping the linens outside that she hadn't bothered to bring in. It was reality again, but a peaceful reality that she was content to be set in.

Chris collapsed on top of her, his breathing heavy, his chest heaving against hers. He shifted onto his hip and shoulder so that he wasn't pinning her down beneath his weight. The same shoulder had the faint red outline of her mouth, a soft impression of her teeth.

They lay there in silence while the sweat on their skin slowly cooled and dried, and their breathing returned to normal. Amelia kept her eyes closed, not wanting to give up the magic of it all just yet. Chris watched her, thinking that she was the most beautiful creature he'd laid eyes on since Sarah. And he wondered if she knew what she had done for him, if it felt to her the way it felt to him. That there was more between them than merely the act, and how much he adored her for giving herself to him when he needed her most. And just how frustrated he was that he couldn't put all of that into words. That he wasn't brave enough to say it. That he was scared to feel this way again, but that it was too late to stop it.

He channelled his frustrations into a sigh and dropped his head back on the pillow. Amelia's eyes snapped open and she looked at the man laying next to her. The man who had come into her life and into her bed, and taken her heart with him, though he probably didn't know it.

"Chris, please tell me what's wrong. Is it something I've said or done?"

There was a note of pleading in her voice, and also a subtle hint of apprehension. A worry that she'd done something to drive a wedge in between them, into whatever this was that they shared. That she might lose it, and lose him, too.

"God no," he said, his voice hoarse. "It's not you, Amelia. Or maybe it is, maybe it's all you - but not the way you think. Nothing to bring out that tone in your voice, that worry in your head."

He turned over onto his back and slipped his arm under her, pulling her to him, holding her close. He'd lost track somewhere along the way of all the women that he'd had, mostly because all but a few had never mattered. They were faceless and nameless in his memory. Most he'd get up and leave once the deed was done; some he'd even sent away, during those cold, callous and pain clouded days in Purgatory, when he'd been a different man. A few he'd been content to share a bed with until morning, turning over and drifting off to sleep as easily as if they weren't there. But Amelia, he couldn't imagine leaving now, or turning away from her. Having her body was only half of what he wanted, he also wanted to hold her and feel her fall asleep in his arms. To wake up to her, lithe and naked moving about the room, pulling her clothes on and going out to milk what he refered to as "the damn cow" that started lowing at first light, calling her away. He wanted to kiss her even now that their bodies weren't joined, to have her touch him even if it wasn't part of making love to him.

"What is it, then?" she asked again. In the glow of the candle he could see her brown eyes gazing at him intently.

He shook his head. To his embarrasment, he could feel an aching in his throat and tears threatening behind his eyes.

"Sometimes," he said, picking up where he had left off earlier, what seemed like forever ago. "Sometimes, you're the only thing that keeps me sane. The only reason I'm still here."

It was too oversimplified. His words sounded trite and foolish to his own ears. A thought kept circling around in his head that really, he hardly knew this woman in his arms.

Amelia lightly settled herself on top of him, pulling her hair to the side and dropping it over her shoulder. Her eyes flicked back and forth between his, like she was searching for something. And she was looking all the way into his soul, and he knew then that she understood more than he could say, although he wanted so badly to say it.

As for her, the words thundered inside of her mind, perched on her lips, dying to be set free. But she didn't say a thing, only leaned down and kissed him again, hoping that all that she felt and hoped he felt could be translated from her heart to his. That between their two hearts was a language that someday they'd be able to speak aloud.


End file.
